At Gate C27 a Cocky Marine Ridiculed My Army Rank, Right Before a General Showed Up

I looked down at the black ink stamped across the middle paragraph.

My original direct flight to the assignment base had been crossed out with one thin line, and a new leg had been typed in its place.

“Rerouted through Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson,” I read out loud.

“Gate C27.”

“That’s a three-hour layover in the busiest concourse in the region,” Daniel said.

“I’ll make the window,” I said.

“Look at the bottom line of the order, Sarah,” he said.

I tilted the page toward the yellow curb light.